


Idle Hands

by CityMouse418



Category: The Dukes of Hazzard (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 06:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityMouse418/pseuds/CityMouse418
Summary: Prequel - Cooter's garage is a legend with the local dirt-track crowd, but how'd it all start?





	Idle Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon - Set in my own almost canon compliant, but more diversity-accepting AU universe as established in "Keeper". Thank you for reading!

The anniversary cookout had been a flat-out barn burner. It seemed like everybody and his dog turned out to wish the Hazzard Garage and its owner another twenty years of success and happiness. To be honest, a few of the well-wishers were really strangers that had just stopped for gas, but were handed a paper plate and pulled toward the grill for a hot dog and a big spoonful of Uncle Jesse’s red-potato salad. 

Daisy and Lulu had gotten some decorations together, much to Cooter’s chagrin. Blue and yellow streamers hung from just about every spot they could fit a thumbtack and balloon bouquets bonked party-goers in the nose at every turn. The item that got the most attention, however, was a four-by-four foot square of plywood that was completely covered with pictures. Fading technicolor photos of a young Cooter, leaning on fin-tailed car trunks or wooden-tailgate pick-up trucks, a few shots of him tying tin cans to bumpers or painting Hazzard High rally colors onto the lucky vehicles, and some newer pictures of Cooter, away from the garage, with various groups of friends. 

The picture that got everyone talking was the oldest one, however: a scallop-edged, black and white photo of a 22-year-old Cooter, hamming it up for the Hazzard County Sheriff’s Office mugshot camera. The suspect, “Davenport, C.J. (ID: 4518-4)” was front and center, with a squat beer bottle in his hand, and his arm flung around 17 year old “Doolan, Donald Ernest (ID: 4518-3)”. In the edge of the frame, the newly-elected Sheriff R.P. Coltrane could be seen pointing a finger at the pair and shouting something, long since forgotten. 

"I still can't believe that's you, Sheriff!" Enos giggled. "You don't look old enough to shave, hardly!" 

"Yeah, that's me. I was 27, that first year, and I thought I wouldn't make it to see 28." Rosco replied, smiling. "This bunch didn't make it any easier, neither!" He waved his half-full bottle of RC Cola at the little group, sitting around the tire rack. Do-Bro, Cooter, Cletus and Brodie grinned and waved or nodded back to him, but didn't confirm nor deny Rosco's accusations. 

"Oh, heck! You probably don't even remember what happened that night!" Do-Bro Doolan piped up.

"I sure do," Rosco replied. "And I can bet you that one remembers, too." He pointed the top of his soda bottle toward Cooter and raised his eyebrows the tiniest bit.

"Yeah," Cooter said, smiling a little wistfully. "I remember."  
===========================================  
"They're still over there."

"I know, Carl. I can hear 'em."

"Well, are we gonna do anything, Sheriff?" The deputy's last word was said with an edge that was just this-side of sarcastic. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that didn't really care for following orders from somebody that was a year younger than his son. It didn't matter to him that Rosco had been admired as a fine soldier when he'd come home from the service, a couple years ago. Everybody knew he only got this job because his brother-in-law somehow got himself elected to the county board. 

"Yeah, we're gonna do something." 

Rosco Purvis Coltrane, 4 months into his new position as Hazzard County sheriff, stood up from behind his desk and walked closer to the window that looked out onto the main street through town. He lifted the Venetian blinds a tiny bit and looked across the street toward the Hazzard Garage, taking a quick count of the young men gathered around the tire-rim "campfire." A handful of scattered kerosene lanterns cast wild shadows on the clapboard walls of the old building. He shook his head as he recognized a couple of them, despite the dim light.

"Tim still here?" Rosco asked his sullen deputy.

"Yeah, he's downstairs, sweeping up."

"Alright," Rosco cleared his throat and ordered, "Can you get him up here, please, and then put some film in the camera. We'll be back, directly."

Rosco grabbed his new black Stetson from the coat-hook and waited by the front double doors of the office. When he heard his second deputy coming up the steps, he stayed just long enough to let Tim see him near the doors, then slid his hat on and headed outside, giving the other officer no choice but to hurry to keep up. 

"I know all these boys pretty well," Rosco said, as the pair crossed the deserted night-time street. "They won't give us no trouble, so let's just take it easy on 'em." He glanced sideways at the deputy, making sure the other man would follow his lead. Once he got a short nod in reply, he turned his attention forward and scanned the corner lot to verify the locations of the offenders in question.

“Evenin’, gentlemen,” Rosco called out, as he stepped up onto the curb. He could hear Tim’s steps behind him and felt him move to the right, flanking the group.

“Hey, Rosco! How you been?! H’ain’t seen you in a dog’s age; what with your new job an’ all! You want one?” Cooter reached into the water-filled oil bucket and pulled out an empty beer bottle. “Not this one, though ... ‘S empty …” He giggled at his own joke and dropped the bottle back in the bucket. Behind him, the three other boys shuffled closer together and kept their eyes on their shoes.

Deciding to put the most obvious one out of his misery first, Rosco called out, “Cletus Hogg.”

“Yessir, Sheriff?” The pale young man nearly tripped over a short stack of tires, in his haste to step forward.

“You have any beers tonight?”

“No sir! Beer gives me an awful headache and since I don’t usually get ‘em outside of hayfever season, that’d make my mom real suspicious and I can’t get anything past her. Ever since that time I tried to sign her name on a note to Mrs. Goodwin and sneak home, she …”

“Cletus!” Rosco shouted, ending the monologue of grade-school misdeeds. “Go home. And tell your mama I’ll be over tomorrow to talk about all this.” He waved his hand toward the brown and green bottle pyramid and empty doughnut boxes, strewn around the garage driveway.

Cletus didn’t even take time to reply, as he wheeled sharply to his left and took off across the grassy side yard of the garage. He rounded the far corner and yelled back a belated “thank you!” that was nearly lost in the slap of his tennis shoes against the blacktop.  
Rosco shook his head and took a second to pity that boy’s future employer before turning back to the remaining three in front of him. He looked at the smallest one and called him away from the pair of older boys.

“Your mama know you’re out this late?”

Broderick Richards Jr., all of five-foot-nothin’ and turning sixteen in a month, met Rosco’s eyes and whispered, “No, sir.” He tried to keep his breathing steady, but it was getting harder now that he realized that Mama was going to find out where he’d been.

“She know who you’re with?”

“Yes, sir. She sent some of her lemon cookies for the party, even.” Brodie gestured behind him toward the empty blue and white china platter, sitting precariously on the trunk of a battered Ford Fairlane. 

Rosco glanced sideways at his deputy and huffed quietly. Mrs. Richards might have sent him over with those cookies, but he would bet his brand new patrol car that she never intended for him to hang out here all night with boys that were five and six years older than himself. 

“You know where she’s working tonight?”

Brodie swallowed hard and answered softly, “Over at the old Soldier’s Home.” His large brown eyes started to tear up and he scrambled to wipe them on his sleeve before anyone noticed.

Rosco nodded and called for the last two miscreants. “Alright. We’re all going across to my office and get things settled. Tim, can you get some sand and water on that fire and put out those lanterns? You two – come on; let’s go.” He put his hand lightly on Brodie’s shoulder, gently steering him toward the curb. “And grab that plate on your way over. Mrs. Richards’ll have a kitten if something happens to break up her set.”

Forty-five minutes later, phone calls had been made, the older pair were settled separately in the two downstairs cells, and Brodie was cautiously nursing a mug of sweet tea in the main floor holding cell. Rosco finished sweeping up the last bit of “Sani-Fresh Janitorial Sand” in front of the booking desk and carried the dustpan to the pail outside the rear door. He knew Carl was developing the mugshots that he’d just taken of Do-bro and Cooter, but he wasn’t sure where Tim was, at the moment. He was fairly certain this type of chore was below his new position and he was going to be sure to mention it at the next staff meeting.

The double doors squeaked open and then shut with a soft thud, letting Rosco know that the first parent had arrived. He peeked around the doorframe to see Mrs. Helen Richards, scanning the room. Her stark white nurse’s uniform glowed in the half-light of the front room. She spotted her son in the holding cell and pressed her lips into a harsh line. 

“Mrs. Richards,” Rosco called out. “I’ll be right there in just a second, ma’am. I have to just get rid of this thing here …” He hurriedly scooted the pail behind the door and tossed the dustpan to the side. The sudden rattle and clang of the metal hitting the concrete floor of the impound garage brought a whooping cheer and laughter from the downstairs cells. 

“You two, hush down there!” Rosco hollered down the steps, trying his best to sound in charge, which only resulted in more laughter. 

“Is he alright?” Helen asked, nodding her starched cap toward the corner cell. She knew exactly what cleaning sand meant and immediately guessed the source.

“Yeah,” Rosco answered. “I think he’s ok now. Too much sugar and excitement for one night. We can just go in my office here.” Rosco hustled to open the door and stepped aside to let her through. Once inside, he pulled a chair from against the wall closer to the side of his desk. 

“He wasn’t drinking, was he?” Helen leveled her gaze at Rosco, showing that she wanted the whole truth. She kept her expression calm, but her heart was beating wildly. Raising children as a widow was no easy feat, even with help from her family, and she knew she had stumbled a bit with Randall and George. Rosco’s predecessor had let her know that they’d be in a lot trouble if they acted up like that, too far outside of Hazzard County. Too many other places clearly thought that some people were just worth more than others and wouldn’t hesitate to hurt somebody they thought was “gettin’ above themselves.” 

“Oh no, ma’am. He went through most of a case of NeHi pop and half a dozen doughnuts, plus the cookies you sent over. He’s sick as a pup, but he’s not drunk.” 

A knock on the frosted glass window interrupted the conversation, as Tim popped his head around the door and said that Mr. Doolan had come to pick up his son.

“He’s asking for the damage, Sheriff,” Tim added. 

“Tell him nineteen dollars: ten dollars for public drunkenness and nine dollars for disorderly conduct and nuisance violations. And take cash, only. I don’t want any trouble with the bank, later. Don’t forget to give him a receipt and you can sign him out on your badge number.” At that, Tim nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Sorry about that. This job is paperwork on top of more paperwork, I think.” Rosco smiled a tiny bit and shifted a little straighter in his chair. “Where were we?”

Helen regarded the man on the other side of the desk. She had known the Coltrane family, ever since she had moved into Hazzard County as a child and quickly became a bosom friend to Rosco’s oldest sister, Hortense. She hoped things between the families would stay the same after Rosco’s election and it seemed that the first test was upon them. 

“How much will his fine be?” She asked, warily. The Doolans were able to pay a nineteen dollar fine with little problem. It was fairly well known that they helped guard the rabbit-trails used by the local moonshiners and were well-paid for their service and their silence. Her night-nurse's pay, on the other hand, didn't go too far when you had three children and an older aunt at home depending on it.

“Brodie's?” Rosco was surprised by the question and it took him a second to think up a response. “Oh, he’s not getting a fine. He didn’t do anything, ‘cept bring over a plate of cookies to the garage. Here’s your plate, by the way. All washed and everything.” He slid his chair sideways across the smooth wooden floor, grabbed the plate from a low filing cabinet and slid back to his spot behind the desk. 

‘Vote him into office, give him a fancy uniform, but he’s still Teensy’s little brother,’ Helen thought, watching him stifle a smile as the chair glided across the waxed floorboards.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Helen said, gratefully. Not being certain of her social footing in the current situation, she leaned toward the more formal just to be on the safe side.

“He’s ready to go home, as soon as you are, but can I ask you something before you leave?” Rosco looked across the desk and hoped Helen would take his next question as a kindness and not an insult. He waited for her to nod and asked, “Is he working anywhere? I know he’s a little on the young side for anything real hard and I know he’s still in school, but it can go a long way to nippin’ some of this hanging-out stuff in the bud.”

Helen pursed her lips a bit and replied, “No, he’s not.” She took a breath and tried not to sigh too loudly. “He’s my youngest, you know, and I wanted it to be a little easier on him. The other two stopped after 8th Grade to go to work and did just fine with that, but I wanted things to be different for Brodie! I wanted him to be able to go through high school and not worry about holding a job at the same time.” 

Rosco could see her stress level rising and scrambled to diffuse it.

“Well, what if I knew of a place that wouldn’t interfere with his schooling at all and still take up enough of his time to keep him away from those older boys. And it’s clean work, mostly clean anyhow … and all inside, not out in the weather.”

Helen regarded Rosco warily, not sure where he was going. There weren’t too many places a young man like Brodie could work that were totally indoors, unless it was an under-the-table job of some kind. 

“Where were you thinking?” Helen cautiously questioned.

“The Picture Palace, right there across the way.” Rosco pointed back over his left shoulder, then thought for a second. “No, Maple is over here … so, that way.” Rosco corrected his pointing and smiled at Helen. “The movie house. I worked there when I was his age and Mr. Irving is a real nice boss. As long as Brodie’s got a white shirt and some dark pants to wear, Mr. Irving’ll give him a black vest and bow tie to start and then, if he does good with carrying boxes and sweeping up and all, he’ll work up to a red vest and get to work the ticket booth and candy counter.” He paused and waited to see Helen’s reaction.

“You’re sure he’ll agree to it?” Helen made an obvious move to look at her own coffee-hued, ungloved hands before meeting Rosco’s eyes. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Rosco’s voice didn’t waver as he replied to the concerned mother. He knew Mr. Irving patently refused to enforce the unwritten rules about different viewing days for different people and only hung up those obnoxious signs because he knew the fire chief would make notes while doing the yearly safety inspections. He would tell his employees that all money was green, no matter the hand that passed it over counter, and he wouldn’t stand for any disrespect toward a paying customer. 

Helen nodded and took a deep breath, moving to stand. 

“Thank you for looking out for him. And he won’t be back here a second time; I’ll make sure of it.” Helen smiled tightly at Rosco and gathered her gloves and purse from the edge of the desk. She waited as Rosco opened the office door and motioned for her to go through before him.

“Oh, I know that already. I bet the only time I’ll see him now is when I take Momma and the girls to the pictures.” Rosco grinned as Helen chuckled. He cleared his throat a tiny bit and called out, “Brodie Richards, you’re free to go with no fines, but I expect to see you right back here at 10:30, tomorrow morning. Your mother will explain it all, on your way home.” He unlocked the holding cell door with a confident turn of the key and pulled it open. He felt a little tug at his heart when he saw Brodie rush forward, right into his mother’s waiting hug. There was still a good bit of little-boy in him and Rosco was happy to see that. No sense in growing up so awful fast; you got your whole life to be tough and on your own. He knew that sad fact, first hand. He walked the pair to the double doors and bid them good night as they headed down the wide concrete steps. 

“He’ll be back,” Carl snorted from behind the booking counter. He glanced sideways toward Rosco and nearly smirked, but caught himself just in time. 

“No, he won’t. If you’re done with that file, you can go. The budget don’t allow for over-time anymore and it’s only just the one of ‘em left downstairs now. Tim and I can handle him.” Rosco made sure Carl understood that his presence was no longer required and ignored the aggravated huff as the older man let himself out the staff door. 

“Tim!” Rosco called down the stone steps toward the cells and waited until he saw his younger deputy poke his head around the doorway.

“Yessir?” 

“Bring that last one up here. We’ll get his paperwork done and close up the booking cabinet for the night.”

Rosco headed to his office and left the door open while he poured himself another cup of coffee. He hesitated for a moment, then flipped over a second mug and filled it. He placed it on the visitor’s side of the desk before sitting down and pulling himself closer to the typewriter. He fed a blank sheet of paper into the machine and turned the knob to get the first line set properly. He hit the return key and smiled at the satisfying slide and “clunk” of the solid rubber bar. He looked toward the door as Tim brought in his last victim. Tim plunked Cooter into the worn wooden chair and nodded as he left, closing the door behind him.

“That one’s for you. Drink up,” Rosco said, eyeing Cooter and trying to assess his level of sobriety. With about half of that cup into him, he should be able to start his questions.

Cooter, for his part, was valiantly staying upright. The smell of the rich black coffee was both comforting and slightly nauseating at the same time. He swallowed carefully, testing the strength of his stomach, before picking up the mug. The warmth of the heavy ceramic was a welcome feeling after the chill of the concrete cell downstairs. He took a small sip and sighed as the heat made its way down. He looked across the desk and saw Rosco gesture for him to take another sip. That was one sheriff’s order he was happy to comply with. After a few more mouthfuls, Cooter could see Rosco wanted to get started. 

“Of all the years I’ve known you, this is the first time I ever had to write your real name down,” Rosco commented, as he tapped out the first few lines of the report. He didn’t really look at Cooter directly, but snuck small glances at him occasionally. He filled in all the lines he already knew: name (plus any known aliases), birth date (if known), home address, telephone number (if any), workplace. “Feels funny, making you all official like that.” He stopped typing and looked over at younger man across from him.

“So, want to tell me about tonight?”

Cooter took one more drink from his cup and settled his eyes on his boots.

“Nothing to tell. It’s been a year of me havin’ the garage open and I wanted to celebrate. We maybe had a few more than usual, but we didn’t break nothing, there was no cussing or dirty talk and we sure didn’t let little Brodie have none of them beers. We all made sure of that.” Cooter looked up, defiantly setting his chin. 

“How’d you do that?” Rosco asked, typing steadily. He paused to review what he’d written, scrolled the page out of the typewriter and set it aside, then inserted another sheet.

“We kept the church key on one of us the whole time and had to pry the tops off all those cokes he had.” Cooter finished his coffee and put the empty cup on the edge of the desk. He waited for Rosco to want more of a reply, but he never asked.

“Anybody else out there, besides the four of you that we saw?”

“Naw,” Cooter drawled. “Sir,” he added after he saw the sharp look Rosco sent him.

“How long’s your ‘lectric been cut off?” 

Cooter was immediately thankful that he’d put that cup on the desk because if he hadn’t, it would have fallen right out of his hands. How could Rosco possibly KNOW about that? With the longer summer evenings, Cooter had been able to keep working on his customers’ cars outside, on the wide driveway, and was almost able to keep the same hours as before. The problem he had was keeping ahold of the little bits of cash that came in. He had two main enemies in that particular war: the barter system and the Boar’s Nest. First, too many of his customers wanted to pay for his mechanic work in trade of some kind. It was a time-honored tradition in this part of the county and accepted almost anywhere - except at the utility company. The second foe: the Boar’s Nest - a one dollar cover charge and three dollar pitchers of beer, carried right to you by Hazzard’s finest ladies. It hadn’t been open very long, but was already getting a reputation for being one of the more popular places to be. 

Cooter took a slow breath before answering, “Not long.” 

Rosco grunted and continued typing. He reached the end of the page and pulled it from the machine. Quickly stashing that sheet in a brown folder, he slid a new page behind the roller and continued steadily pressing keys.

“How are you gettin’ all that from me sayin’ two words?!” Cooter asked, testily. “What are you even writing, over there?”

“Don’t you worry about what I’m writing,” Rosco replied calmly, not even glancing toward the grumpy young man. “And that was a pretty poor answer. Why’d it get cut off?” 

“Why you think?” Cooter flung himself back into the hard chair. “Too much month at the end of the money.”

“How do you expect to run that garage with no power?”

“That’s MY business!” Cooter nearly shouted, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Rosco stopped typing and looked squarely at Cooter, taking in the red cheeks and harsh breathing. “That’s right. Only you put the stress on the wrong word. It’s your BUSINESS. Your livelihood. You want to make a better name for yourself than what your Daddy had? This is how you do it - by keeping that place over there going. You got a good head for cars! Never seen somebody that could get a real junk-heap running the way you can! There’s a real future in that, if you’ll stick with it.” He saw the way Cooter blushed at the praise and quickly looked away, so he wouldn’t embarrass the younger man any more than he already had. “I’ll call down to the utility company tomorrow and get that straightened out. Can’t have the garage that has the exclusive contract for all the official Hazzard county vehicles trying to work with no power.”

Cooter could barely hear what Rosco had said over the blood, buzzing in his ears. “Say again?”

“The county vehicles. Three patrol cars, one motorcycle with attached side-car, half a dozen public works trucks, two trash haulers, one tow truck with a chain-winch, two ambulances and one fire engine.” Rosco scrolled the page upward and read the text with a radio announcer’s precision, pronouncing each phrase carefully and with very little of his usual relaxed drawl. “The contracted party will be responsible for all routine and emergency maintenance of the above-listed county vehicles, including but not limited to: scheduled oil and filter changes, tire rotations and tire pressure checks, tune-ups, gasoline filling, exhaust system inspections, chassis inspection and repair, suspension system inspection and repair, and brake assembly maintenance and replacement as needed.” He finished pulling it out of the mechanism and slid it across the desk, then settled back to wait.  
Cooter eyed the paper warily, as if it was going to leap off the desk and bite him. He rubbed his fingertips against his jeans before slowly reaching forward to take the page up and read it more carefully.

“Quality of work will be reviewed after 99 days. Contin … Contin-u-ation of the established contract will be determined after review. ” Cooter read, slowly. “That’s a pretty short amount of time, ain’t it? How come not in six months or a year?” He looked up at Rosco and tried to guess his reason for the strict rules of the contract.

“ ‘Cause I do things a little different than others might. You want the work or not?” Rosco schooled his expression into a slightly aggravated frown, not wanting to let on that the shorter review period would allow him the chance to (hopefully) give the new mechanic some kudos for his work on the Hazzard vehicles. 

Cooter read the short contract once more, from the top, then reached over and plucked a click-pen from the clear glass tumbler on Rosco’s desk. He carefully signed his legal name on the line above the typed version. He pushed the paper toward the sheriff, who signed his own name with the heavy silver fountain pen that his Momma had given him, after his election. 

Rosco pulled the official Hazzard County notary press from the drawer and clamped it down on one corner of the contract. 

“Now, we’re set,” Rosco declared. “I expect to see those bay doors open from 8:30 in the morning until 5:00 in the evening. You can take a lunch, o’ course, but you have to put a note up, saying when you’re coming back. I’ll call the power company and get your electric back on by noon, at the latest. You got my word on that.” He stood and held out his hand to seal the deal. 

Cooter stood also and pursed his lips, aiming toward his own open palm.

“Don’t you spit in my office! This ain’t the back-country!” Rosco panicked, pulling his hand back immediately.

Cooter laughed and reached forward, gripping the young sheriff’s hand warmly.  
=========================================  
“I figured you can have the rest of it tomorrow morning, when the boys come for breakfast. Somethin’ different than doughnuts, for once.” Rosco could see that Cooter hadn’t heard a single word and waited for him to notice him standing in the open doorway.

Cooter saw a shadow fall across the photo board and looked toward the source. 

“You say something, just now?” 

“Yeah …” Rosco repeated, patiently. “I said, I wrapped up the rest of the cake and stuck it in the frigidare. When the boys show up, tomorrow morning, they can help finish it up.” He held out his hand and wriggled his fingers in the universal sign for gimme. “Hand me those keys and let’s head home. It’s almost 1:30 in the morning! Momma left with Lulu around 10 and you know she won’t go upstairs until we get home.”

“I’m alright,” Cooter stood up slowly, ruining his confident statement.

“You ain’t had 4 beers, in one night, since I can’t tell you when,” Rosco replied, leaning forward to scoop up the keys from the bowl on the desk. “Besides, it’s not the beers, it’s the time. You’re not the night-owl in that picture no more. Gettin’ past midnight is saying something, these days.” He winked at Cooter and started flicking off light switches on the panel near the doorframe.

“You sayin’ I’m old?!” Cooter teased. He still felt like that young pup in the photo, but sometimes his tired eyes and back muscles wanted to argue that fact. 

“Naw,” Rosco answered, tenderly. “But we ain’t neither of us like that anymore.” He touched the edge of the mugshot softly and smiled at it. “What if we had figured out all this, back then?” He looked at his younger self with a sad smile. “Would’ve had a lot more time.”

Cooter chuckled and shook his head. “We’d’ve tore the house down, fightin’, and probably hate each other, even now.” He brushed his fingers along the back of Rosco’s hand. “No, I had way too much growing up to do and you were …” Cooter stopped himself from saying 'still denying your real self'. “You were so busy keeping Boss in line, you didn’t have time for dates.” He lightly tugged on Rosco’s loose fingers and nodded toward the office door. “C’mon. If Momma’s asleep in that green chair, she’s going to wake up with a sore neck and blame us for it.”

Rosco laughed and quickened his pace to open the door. “You ain’t kiddin’. We’re both gonna be hearing about being so late, as it is.” He closed and locked it behind them, then followed Cooter to the truck. 

“Hey,” Rosco whispered, as he let Cooter in the passenger side. “If she’s too awful mad, you think Bo and Luke’ll mind me having cake here with you all, in the morning?”


End file.
